


Going Easy

by notmyyacht



Category: Trouble in the Heights (2011)
Genre: Food Critic AU, Gen, One-Sided Attraction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-17
Updated: 2017-07-17
Packaged: 2018-12-03 05:16:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,453
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11525322
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notmyyacht/pseuds/notmyyacht
Summary: Nevada Ramirez is a highly respected food critic of New York City. She's a chef with the fate of the restaurant in her hands. When he keeps coming back, she wonders if it's for the food or if he's just indecisive.





	Going Easy

**Author's Note:**

> Heavily inspired by various conversations on tumblr on the AU subject! So I wrote a food/restaurant critic AU =D 
> 
> Unbeta'd so any mistakes are mine! Hope you guys enjoy it!!

Oh, how she wished the manager hadn’t come into the back room just now. She stared down at the meat she was slicing, striving not to cut herself while indulging in her thoughts. Thoughts she should not be having for they are distracting. Not that she would get this recipe wrong; she could do this in her sleep.

But now her mind was plagued with what awaited her out on the floor.

“Ramirez, in _our_ restaurant?” she could hear one of the prep cooks excitedly gossip about it from the other end of the kitchen.

Nevada Ramirez was a harsh critic. Not very well liked, but if he gave a good review about a restaurant, they would be set for life. If Nevada gave a bad review… well, then the employees better get ready to start looking for work in the near future.

She felt drops of sweat form on the back of her neck as she was handed the order.

Sancocho?

Alright, easy enough. She’s made sancocho a thousand times.

She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. _You can do this._

Nevada wanted to see the chef who made his meal. Not uncommon. It’s fine. She could do this.

She stepped out onto the floor. As she made her way to table ten, she could feel every co-worker’s eyes on him.

Nevada Ramirez didn’t face the kitchen. He sat alone, his dark hair freshly cut and his leather jacket looking smart with his nice slacks. She came around the table to face him.

Up close there was something both pristine and yet roguish about him. Her gaze flickered briefly to the scar under his eye; an iconic feature of his that was more subtle than she would have guessed. It was almost a joke about how he got it. Some said it was from a knife fight, others believed that Nevada was once a chef but was injured in culinary school. Neither stories have been confirmed nor denied, of course. Nevada Ramirez, a mystery, wrapped up in a harsh food critic, inside of an enigma.

Green eyes bore into the back of her skull, as if he could see right through her; she felt herself shiver involuntarily. She cleared her throat to cover.

“You made this?” Nevada asked, gesturing at the half-eaten bowl of stew. His tone was condescending. She shifted her weight to the other foot and stood her ground.

“I did. Is there anything wrong, sir?”

The corner of his mouth twitched. He took another bite then pursed his lips in thought. She stood there, waiting.

“Thank you,” he finally said.

 

The manager hugged her later and said that it had been a successful night. Nevada had given the waitress a decent tip and even stayed for dessert. She smiled softly, her stomach twisting into knots as if there was something wrong.

And so the restaurant waited.

And waited.

Three weeks and there was no review. Nothing. Nevada wrote a review for another restaurant five blocks away. Still nothing for her restaurant.

And then he was back.

She couldn’t believe it. This time he ordered something original from the restaurant’s manager who would tell his staff that it was a family recipe. It was considered the best dish in the restaurant. She was once again given the job of making it.

A fire burned in her belly as she chopped the vegetables. How dare he come back without giving them a proper review? Was it some sort of sexist thing? Did he want a man to make his food? No, she told herself, he had reviewed Lola’s six months ago; a diner almost devoid of male chefs. Lola had been one of the lucky ones. Nevada had given her a good review. Lola deserved it…

She shook her head and bit at her lower lip in concentration. Whatever Nevada’s problem was, if there was a problem, it would end tonight.

He asked for her again. This time she strode out onto the floor with confidence. She was certain it was the best meal she’d ever made in her entire career.

Nevada was wearing a tie this time. As soon as he saw her, his eyes lit up and a grin spread across his face. Was he… glad to see her?

“Thank you,” was all he said.

“You’re welcome,” she replied.

She tossed and turned that night. What was this to him? Some sort of game? Was it her? Did he want to mess with her for some ridiculous reason? Maybe he liked her? She considered herself somewhat attractive; maybe he had a thing for her? They do say the closest way to a person’s heart is through their stomach…

A week after his second visit, they finally received word that Nevada had published his review in the paper. She snatched it from the gossipy prep cooks who were surprisingly silent that day.

 _I have had the privilege of dining not once, but twice at_ Marco’s _over the past month. I had only intended on eating there once, but after a mediocre bowl of sancocho, it would only be a mercy to give them another chance and try what is known as their ‘best dish.’ To my surprise, it was exquisite! The veggies were perfectly cooked, the meat mouth-wateringly tender, as it should be in a dish like this. The sauce was a bit on the salty side, but it did not take away from the spicy, organic flavors exploding on my tongue._

Nevada went on to praise his second meal and devastate his first. He spoke of how the friendliness of the staff left something to be desired, but that they were efficient at their jobs.

 _Thus_ , Nevada concluded, _I give_ Marco’s _a 7/10. I highly recommend staying away from the stews, but their original dishes are well worth it._

The staff let out a joyous sigh of relief and words of encouragement all around.

 _‘A lacking friendliness from the staff,’ my ass,_ she thought, hugging the sous chef. If only he had seen the kitchen as well as the waiters. She suspected they would be getting a talk from the manager sometime today.

“A seven out of ten. That’s so weird,” said the sous chef, looking down at the review. “Usually he either gives glowing reviews or shits on you.”

The manager clamped a hand on her shoulder, turning her away from the sous.

“Good work,” he told her.

“Thank you sir.”

She entered her apartment that night with a spring in her step and a smile on her face.

Nevada visited Marco’s for the third time several months later. To everyone’s surprise, the review didn’t hurt nor help the restaurant, which the manager was perfectly okay with.

“At least it didn’t ruin us,” he said. Always was a glass half full type of guy.

But then he was back.

Her shift had ended and she spotted him, menu in hand. She walked up to him, a smile on her face.

“You should try the salmon. Frank is working right now and he’s the best at seafood.”

He looked up at her in surprise. Recognizing her without her white chef jacket, his face twisted into that smirk.

“Now that’s just cheating,” he said before turning his attention back to the menu. She stood there a moment, waiting for him to continue the conversation, or perhaps ask for her to join him. He did no such thing.

She felt as awkward as she had on his first night there. Finally, she broke the silence.

“I just wanted to thank you…”

“For what?” he said, still focused on the menu, “Your dishes did enough of the talking, don’t you agree? I’m here for dinner, not for work, if you’re worried about that.”

“I’m not! I just… why did you want to see me the nights you were working?” She felt the weights lift from her shoulders. It was a foolish thing to think, but he was very attractive…

“I wanted to look you in the eye. This place had been recommended to me and I wanted to make sure it was an actual chef who made my sancocho, not a college student experimenting with an online recipe.” He finally lifted his gaze to her as she stood there, frozen, insulted. “The second time made me change my mind. It’s good to know that you do have your strengths. Perhaps you should work more on your stew techniques. I’m certain there are other chefs in this hole that can make a decent sancocho. Maybe they should teach you.”

And just like that, he silently dismissed her.

If she ever saw him in the restaurant again, she didn’t approach him.


End file.
